


The Darkness of a Coffin

by beeberry



Category: AR∀GO ロンドン市警特殊犯罪捜査官 | Arago
Genre: Claustrophobia, Gen, Living Ewan AU, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9465305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeberry/pseuds/beeberry
Summary: Passing the days in hiding because you aren't supposed to be alive is hard enough without adding limb loss and PTSD to the equation, but here we are.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://dragontameroutofcharacter.tumblr.com/post/91947880142/ghostofcrux-nova-dragon-ghostofcrux)

Ewan did not intend to break the window. The day had just been one frustration after another. When he started to seriously consider calling Arago to help him make lunch because he only had one arm to use, he threw the peanut butter in a fit of rage. The window was in the way.

Ewan groaned. The wind blew through the window like a damning accusation, “Yes, the window is broken.” Not only that, he had thrown the only edible thing in the house out the window. He was more upset about that than the window, oddly. He could eat Arago’s candy bars, of course, but Ewan could only take so much sugar. He really wanted that peanut butter.

He would have a talk with Arago about his eating habits and what food to buy when he got back. So resolved, Ewan started to pick up the broken glass on the kitchen counter when he heard loud footsteps pounding outside the door of Arago’s flat. He froze and listened to the muffled voices outside the door.

“Arago left for the day, didn’t he?” someone said, male.

“Did someone break in?”

Shite. The neighbors heard the window breaking. He was not supposed to be here, no one could know.

Ewan dashed out of the kitchen -- there was nowhere to hide in there. The bedroom was no good, either, the bathroom too obvious.

“Here’s the landlord,” someone outside said. “Have you got the master key?”

A metallic jingle told Ewan all he needed to know and he stopped being able to listen. He threw himself into the closet seconds before the door opened. He pressed himself to the back and slid to the floor, hand covering his mouth. There was only a small handful of things actually in the closet, a couple coats alongside an umbrella. If anyone opened the door, they would find Ewan immediately.

“The window’s broken!” Ewan thought that might be the man who lived in the neighboring flat to the right.

“What happened? Was it a robbery, then?” the landlord demanded, voice receding as he followed into the kitchen.

“Don’t think so, though it’s hard to tell if anything has been taken.”

“Isn’t he a police officer?” A female voice, perhaps the neighbor’s wife.

“This guy? Hard to believe. Just look at the state of this place. There’s a laptop right there, though, so I reckon he wasn’t robbed or they’d have taken that. Probably some kids came by and broke the window on a lark. Hope you’ve got insurance.”

The voices moved closer, right outside the closet, and then they were gone. The landlord locked the door behind them, and Ewan listened to their footsteps recede down the hall before he could breath again. He waited another minute, just to be sure, before reaching for the door handle. It turned. The door didn’t budge. Ewan pushed a little harder. He jiggled the door handle. He pressed his full weight against the door. Nothing.

The closet was dark. The door was solid wood, and of course a closet had no need of windows. Ewan shoved at the door again, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing. No matter what he tried, the door held fast.

“No,” Ewan whispered. “No, please.”

Ewan slammed his shoulder against the door, pushed, stumbled back. His shoulder throbbed from the impact, but there was no other sign that he had done a thing. He couldn’t see anything. There was no light except a lesser darkness around the bottom of the door. There was no sound except for his own heartbeat and breathing. Ewan gulped for air, trying for control. For composure. How big was this closet? Was it the size of a coffin?

“No no no no.” It took Ewan a moment to even realize he was speaking out loud. He yanked on the door handle, pull, push, twist, shove. He let go to push the wall away because it was getting closer, pressing him in. There isn’t enough air in a box six feet underground.

Ewan spun with a sob, feeling for the walls. Space, there had to be more space, there had to be a way out. He ran into Arago’s coat, tore it off the hanger. He tripped over the umbrella and hit a wall -- which wall, he didn’t know anymore -- and slid to the floor.

“It’s not,” Ewan whispered to himself, and again. He couldn’t bring himself to say the final word, to say the closet was not a coffin, he wasn’t back there. Getting out just those two words, “it’s not,” took all the breathe he could muster. Ewan closed his eyes and it made no difference. “It’s not, it’s not, it’s not.” He reached out for the walls again, they were too close, but what could he do, the space wasn’t wide enough, his one arm wasn’t enough. His one stupid arm. Ewan slammed his fist against a wall and wrapped his arm around himself, clutching at the stump on his right side. There was nothing, darkness, death.

Nothing, darkness, no air, no light. Death. Trapped in a coffin. No one could survive those wounds (people survived limb loss) not live surgery no anaesthetic in the sewers. It smelled of blood, tasted like copper, looked black in the dim darkness. Blood and decay and rot and dirt. Clean dirt. After the blood and rot, could dirt be cleansing?

Ewan choked on a sob. He brought his hand up. No, he would never forget what it felt like to be touched so intimately by death.

Time crawled. The dim light below the door faded as the sun set, darkness coming early to the streets in the shadows of crowded buildings. Ewan pressed himself to a wall, holding himself with his one arm and still shivering. He did not hear the click of the lock in the front door or footsteps into the flat. The first call, too, fell on deaf ears, but the second, after Arago had seen the shattered window, laced with desperation, reached him.

“Arago.” Ewan could only whisper. He would never reach him in time. Even when Arago called for him, he hadn’t been strong enough.

“Ewan?” Hesitant, close. Arago hardly waited for an answer before breaking the door. He simply yanked it off the hinges, wood splintering in protest. He was beside his brother in an instant, hands hovering at his shoulders, electric light spilling over him so that he appeared to glow. Through closed eyelids Ewan watched the world turning red. “Ewan!”

“Arago.” His voice was soft, a ragged whisper, a death rattle. Ewan cracked his eyes open. Arago was hard to see in the harsh contrast of darkness within and light behind and without. Ewan asked, “Am I dead?”

“No! No, you’re alive!”

With the door open, with the light, with Arago, it was easier to breath. Ewan risked letting go of himself (of the stump of his right arm) to reach for Arago. Warm. Solid. Real. He could see Arago’s shoulders moving as he breathed. Beyond, the flat, the corner of the bed, the laundry on the floor, the piles of books and papers. Ewan wrapped his arm around Arago’s neck and clung to him. Arago hugged back, asking softly, “What happened?”

“Locked,” Ewan said. It was all he could force past the lump in his throat.

“What were you doing in the closet?”

“People came in. Broke the window.”

“Somebody broke the window?”

Ewan felt Arago shift as he looked over his shoulder. “Me. Sorry.”

“You broke the window?”

Ewan nodded and Arago squeezed a little tighter.

“I’m confused.”

It all seemed ridiculous now, but he could breath again. “I threw the peanut butter out the window.”

“But you love peanut butter.”

“Yeah.”

“Then why--”

“Arago?”

He fell quiet.

“Later.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s order Chinese.”

“Sure.”

“Tomorrow you have to buy real food. And tell the landlord you weren’t robbed.”

It took a few more minutes for Ewan to reluctantly let go. Arago helped him to his feet, and they finally left the closet. They taped a bag over the window and Arago called the closest Chinese restaurant. They curled up on the bed -- the flat had no room for a couch -- Arago got the food and they settled into a nest of blankets and pillows.

Arago picked up his laptop. “Movie?”

“Marathon,” Ewan agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of archiving, the Living Ewan AU refers to the ARAGO AU where Patchman, after reviving Ewan, gives him to Arago instead of holding him hostage.


End file.
